


To The Soul

by kekinkawaii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Writer Castiel (Supernatural), window cleaner Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:09:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26463940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii
Summary: One window, two people, three years, four phone calls, and one in a thousand coincidences.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 73





	To The Soul

“I  _ told  _ you, Gabe, I’m fine!”

Castiel waved his arms to emphasize this, despite the fact that he was on the phone.

His brother’s nasally voice, punctuated with the crinkling of those damn candy wrappers he had on him at all times, came through the tinny speaker of Castiel’s beaten-down phone. “Cassie, when was the last time you went outside?”

Castiel paused for a second to remember what day it was (which kind of proved Gabriel’s point, but he’d admit that over his dead body). “Tuesday!” he said triumphantly. “I ran out of eggs.”

“Today’s  _ Saturday,”  _ Gabriel enunciated, delicately, as if Castiel were a preschooler. “And groceries don’t count.”

“They do count,” Castiel protested.

“Right, let’s put it another way, then. Did you  _ talk  _ to anybody? Other than the checkout person.”

“Um,” Castiel said. (He had actually used the self-checkout. But Gabriel didn’t need to know that.)

He could almost feel Gabriel’s heavy, sugar-scented sigh wafting through his cell. “C’mon, Cassie. This isn’t healthy.”

“The entries are due in a week! This could be my chance, Gabe!”

Instinctively tuning out the subsequent barrage of tsks and tuts, Castiel wandered out from his bedroom and into the kitchen area, thinking about what he’d make for lunch.

He turned the corner to the sunny, open space the apartment suite had boasted, complete with the tall, grandiose windows that led to a beautiful view of the city. It did wonders for his inspiration, that was sure—especially in these breezier months as summer sidled into a warmer-coloured autumn. He could draw it from memory, if you asked, so often he’d sat and stared aimlessly out into the sky whilst mentally hacking away at a particularly-nasty plot point.

There was the natural history museum out to the left, the sprawling streets and alleyways leading to the city library, the pastel-coloured ice cream parlour at the outskirts of a forest…

Except today, when Castiel glanced out the window, the ice cream parlour was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was a man—a tall, muscular, very  _ manly  _ man—inches from his windowsill.

Castiel had a brief instant where he was absolutely certain he was about to be horrifically murdered, and oh god why hadn’t he taken the iron baseball bat when the nice lady from down the hall offered it to him after he helped her move out? 

And then he took a closer look and realized that, the man was on the other side of the (shatterproof, 10-year warranty, thrice-tempered glass) window, there was a big patch of foamy blue fluid that he was spreading all across the surface, and he was dangling around the waist with some kind of bungee-jumping cord, a big bucket attached to his hip.

“—Cas? Cas!”

Castiel flinched. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I was  _ saying,”  _ Gabriel huffed, “that you need to at least get some exercise. Fine, if you want to be an antisocial hermit, but you gotta get up and move once in a while. Follow a YouTube tutorial or something. I’m sure they have, like, free zumba lessons.”

“Zumba,” Castiel deadpanned.

“Absolutely,” Gabriel chirped. “And on the plus side, you won’t even crash into anyone and break their collarbone with your two left feet!”

“That was  _ one time,  _ Gabe, and if you had just  _ listened  _ to me—”

“Oops, gotta go!” Gabriel said. “Go forth and Zumba, baby bro. Love you!”

“Gabe—” Castiel started, and was greeted with the dial tone.

Castiel sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He lowered the phone from his ear and pressed End Call, and then looked back up.

The man was still at his window. He had taken out one of those squeegee thingies from a hook on his hip, and was currently wiping off the foamy blue liquid. His hair was dirty-blond and dark-tipped with sweat that rolled down the long tendons on his neck to pool in his collar, shirt unbuttoned slightly in the heat. Even through the tinted windows, Castiel could see the piercing green of his eyes; full pink lips.

Suddenly, those eyes were looking at him.

Flushing red, caught staring, Castiel hastily fixed his gaze on a particularly-riveting piece of tile on his kitchen floor.

He counted to ten, a wild ratcheting in his chest like a dozen tennis balls let loose in a tiny room, and then looked up.

The man looked back. One of his eyebrows was lifted just the slightest higher than the other.

Castiel froze. (Was he supposed to wave? Yell? Smile?)

The man quirked his lips in the hint of a smile, and then wiped the last strip of foam off the windows. Then, he grabbed the rope that was tied to his waist and rappelled down, lower, lower, until he disappeared utterly from view.

“Jesus,” Castiel breathed. Way to make an exit.

-+-+-+-

“I said I’m  _ on  _ it, Charlie,” Castiel reinstated for the dozenth time.

“You better be,” Charlie warned. “This is your big break, Cas. You either win it or eat it.”

“I don’t think that’s how the saying goes.” Castiel frowned. He prodded at the french omelet he was attempting to cook with a rubber spatula.  _ Perfect for beginners,  _ the site had said. Castiel thought that they had a very different concept of  _ beginner  _ than most people.

“Potato, Po-tah-to,” Charlie said impatiently. “I’m just saying, you better have that draft ready for me by the end of the month. We’re pushing the deadlines already, and if we release right after your interview with the local magazine, you’ll be golden.”

“I’ve got it. Seriously, Charlie. When have I ever not met a deadline?”

“First time for everything,” Charlie wagered. “And this is the most important deadline of your career, I’m telling you.”

“Okay,” Castiel said, a little bit of solemnity into his voice if only to placate Charlie. Truth be told, he was feeling a little nervous himself—it was, after all, his debut novel after nearly a year of short stories. He had never been one for melodramatics (ironic considering his choice of career) but even he could recognize that this was a major turning point. And no matter how much he complained about Charlie’s nagging and prodding and nudging, he had to admit, however begrudgingly, that without her, he would’ve gotten stuck at the starting line ages ago.

“Okay,” Charlie echoed, sounding satisfied now that her message had sunk in. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Oh, also—Gabriel sends his regards.”

“Gabe?” Castiel said confusedly, distracted by the way the french omelette appeared to be unrolling itself. 

“He emailed me telling me to force you to get up from your desk and, quote-unquote,  _ get some goddamn exercise, nerd.” _

“He could’ve just texted me.”

“He said you wouldn’t listen to him.”

“True,” Castiel admitted.

“Now, as your  _ agent,  _ I officially command you with the power vested in me for you to  _ get some goddamn exercise.  _ Nerd.”

“A little hypocritical coming from the one with the tattoo of Princess Leia in a slave girl bikini straddling a 20-sided dice.”

“Oh—shut up.”

Castiel grinned. “Tell Gabriel I got his message.”

“Gotcha,” came the sunny reply. “Anyway, I gotta dash. You good to go? Need anything? Idea bounce?”

“No, I think I’m good,” Castiel said absentmindedly, giving up on his pursuit of a picture-worthy omelette and stabbing his spatula repeatedly into the pan, chopping it up into a neat little plate of scrambled eggs instead.

“Alrighty,” Charlie said. “Good luck, dude.”

“Thanks,” Castiel said, and waited on the line until he heard Charlie hang up with a click and a lone, drawn-out beep.

He scraped the eggs into a plate and picked it up, carrying it to the dining table. As he rounded the corner, turning out of the kitchen, he glanced up towards the window and nearly dropped his whole meal.

The man seemed to have just arrived this time. He was taking a washcloth and wiping it all over Castiel’s window, smearing it with blue syrupy fluid in methodically and well-practised movements. He was only wearing a t-shirt, and as he continued to work, his muscles moved under the sleeves in a way that made Castiel’s mouth go dry.

And then (just like last time—how long ago was that? At least one year, maybe more, maybe exactly that) he looked up, and his eyes were just as green as Castiel had remembered.

Those green eyes widened a little, as if surprised. Castiel had forgotten to look away this time.

Castiel swallowed, and then by some Herculean feat of courage, raised his free arm that wasn’t carrying his plate of eggs to wave.

The man seemed taken aback for a second, and then a wide smile spread across his face as he waved back with the hand carrying the cloth, briefly sending a splatter of cleaning fluid flying through the air.

Without really meaning to, Castiel found himself smiling back.

The man had freckles on his cheeks.

It was another moment, two or three seconds maybe, until Castiel realized that he was thinking about whether or not those freckles went all the way down his whole body.

A jolt ran through him.

_ Shit. _

He had  _ written  _ this, obviously, he was a  _ writer  _ after all, and even the most cynical of authors had to dabble in love and dip their toe in romance if they wanted to get anywhere with their stories. He was nearly an expert in it at this point—describing the moment of realization, the sparks, the thick, intangible emotions that made his heart tug and his eyes suspiciously moist.

But he’d never actually thought—he hadn’t—it had never occurred to him, not in his years of reading and year of writing, that it could be  _ real. _

The man’s gaze narrowed with worry. He tilted his head to the side as if to ask,  _ You okay?  _

Castiel wondered what his voice sounded like; if it was smooth or rough or raspy, if he had an accent or a dialect. What would he sound like saying his name?

Heart thudding near-painfully, frighteningly, in his chest, Castiel broke their eye contact to quickly make his way over to the kitchen table.

Halfway there, he realized that he should’ve turned around and went into his room instead, but it was too late then to turn back. He sat down and nibbled down the meal as slowly as he could, keeping his gaze lowered and his peripheral vision stubbornly ignored.

When he looked up, plate empty, the man was gone. The ice cream parlour had closed down over the summer and was replaced with a bubble tea shop.

Castiel carried his plate to the sink. Washed it with water as hot as he could stand, the sharp scent of lemon dish soap stinging his nose.

When he sat down in front of his laptop to meet his daily word quota that evening, he realized he had accidentally written his main character to have ‘bright, clear bottle-green eyes’ instead of the predetermined hazel.

“Jesus,” he muttered out loud when he realized, backtracking furiously as if doing it faster would negate the action in the first place.

When it happened for the third time in four-thousand words, Castiel took his hands off his keyboard and wound them around his head instead.

Gabriel would get one hell of a kick out of this. Charlie would probably encourage him to write it into his next work (as if anyone would read a story about a goddamn  _ window cleaner,  _ of all things). 

And Castiel didn’t even know his name.

-+-+-+-

“And remember,  _ don’t  _ give away any personal information. It’s up to you how casual the conversation can be, but absolutely do not tell them anything about your address, cell number, family life—these are your fans, yes, but you know how they can get, and if you think I’m being harsh, I’m not, I’m just realistic, and I don’t want your bathwater to end up being sold on Kijiji for twenty dollars a pop, so if you’re smart you’ll listen to me—”

To be perfectly honest, Castiel had tuned out after the first sentence. Rubbing his eyes (who knew book signings were so exhausting? You just sat there and moved two fingers, maybe three, plus your full arm every once in a while), he sank down further into his couch. He had been in the living room when he’d gotten the call from the producer, and his laptop was settled comfortable in his lap like a warm, expensive, metal dog.

He opened his email and checked for anything outstanding amidst the flurry of marketing, fanmail, and the occasional spam that wiggled through the detector into the main inbox, warning him of ferrets in his air ducts or whatever inane thing they were coming up with these days.

“—Capiche?” The producer’s voice filtered through.

“Um, yes,” Castiel said. “No personal information.”

“Good,” she responded. “Now, if I do recall correctly, you did say you wanted to contact the winner of the draw yourself?”

“Yes, please.”

Truth be told, when Charlie had first brought up the idea of a one-on-one meeting with a fan, Castiel had balked at the idea. Despite his months of rising fame following the staggering success of his debut novel, Castiel had refused pictures, in-person interviews, and anything else of the sort in any kind. Just the idea made his palms sweat.

But Charlie had nagged, and prodded, and nudged, in that unique Charlie way of hers, and in the end Castiel had finally given in. It was going to be  _ on the down-low,  _ or so she had put it. And Castiel had free will for anything that happened. He was to call with the fan first, then decide how far he wanted to go from there. And he was going to have to make a public appearance at some point—might as well start with one person and work his way up.

It was the least he could do to contact the winner themselves, he had decided.

“Perfect,” the producer said. “The program is choosing the winner right now…”

Castiel closed his email, having found nothing particularly standoffish, right when she called out, “Dean Winchester!”

“Dean Winchester,” Castiel repeated. “Like the gun?”

“Apparently,” the producer responded. “24, male. Lives… right around here, actually!”

“Oh?”

Castiel heard a few clicks coming from the other side of the speaker. “About an hour’s drive from here. Damn.” She whistled lowly. “What a coincidence.”

“Makes things easier,” Castiel admitted.

“That, it does,” the producer said happily. She rattled off Dean Winchester’s phone number, next—Castiel grabbed a pen and a sticky and jotted it down, checking it twice before hanging up on the producer and then dialing just that number.

He took a deep breath.  _ Hello. This is Castiel Novak, author of  _ Unnatural.  _ You are the lucky winner of the meet-and-greet draw! _

Three sentences. Easy as pie.

He pressed Call.

It rang once, twice, three times. Four. 

Castiel was just about to hang up and call back later, maybe confirm the number with the producer again, when the fifth ring was cut off halfway by a tiny  _ click. _

“Heya,” Dean Winchester responded. “Who’s this?” He had a Texan twang, low and easy, a lazy tilt of syllables.

“Hello,” Castiel said. He paused, searching for the words that had  _ just  _ been there, dammit.

“Hi,” Dean said back, sounding amused now. “How you doin’?”

“I’m well, thanks, you?” Castiel said automatically.

“Peachy. Could be better, if it weren’t so windy.”

Castiel blinked. “Oh. Are you outside right now?”

A low chuckle. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“The weatherman said it would rain today,” Castiel said, remembering last night’s forecast.

“The weatherman is a damn liar,” was the smarmy response. “No rain. Just fog, and damp. Kind of worse, honestly. Makes everything slippery.”

Castiel’s eyebrows furrowed. “Doesn’t rain make things even more slippery?”

That chuckle again, a little raspier. It was doing something strange to Castiel’s insides. “Well, yeah, but then I get a raincheck. But not today, because apparently this hellhole of a drizzle ain’t wet enough.”

“Do you work outside?” Castiel asked. (A construction job, maybe?)

Dean hummed in agreement. “Sanitation, mostly,” he said. “Never got very high grades in school, but I’m good with my hands.” The sentence ended with an upwards lilt, a sort of mischievous tone that made it possible to just envision a wink to accompany it with. 

“But enough about me,” Dean said before Castiel could respond, “I want to know more about  _ you.  _ Thought you were a scam caller, but you haven’t warned me about any ferrets in my air vents yet. If you  _ are _ a scam caller you’re a damn shitty one, but otherwise, what’s up with the cold call?”

“Oh,” Castiel said. “Oh!” (How the hell had he gotten derailed so quickly and so completely?)

He sat up straighter, and cleared his throat. “I’m Castiel Novak—”

“Pull the other one,” Dean said immediately.

“And you’ve won the draw for the meet-and-greet,” Castiel finished.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“I’m serious,” Castiel said. “If you’d like, I could get my agent to send you proof, but I need to know if you would like to accept this, um, prize, or to reject it so we could choose somebody else—”

“Oh,  _ hell  _ no,” Dean said. “I mean, hell yes. I accept. Are you kidding me? I freaking  _ loved  _ your book, man.”

“Thank you,” Castiel mumbled. “And, that’s great. If you could just send me some more information about yourself—”

“Okay, wait, hang on a sec,” Dean said, words coming out oddly rushed. “Right now?”

Castiel paused. “Is this a bad time?”

A short laugh. “Yeah, maybe a little. I’m about, uh—fifteen stories up right now. Outside a building, not inside.”

Castiel felt a gear twist in his brain with a tiny little click. “Why? What are you doing?”

“Well, I said I worked in sanitation, and I guess that’s true, but I mostly just clean windows.”

Castiel shut his eyes tightly. There was no way. (There was no way, he told himself, but he was already getting up, moving his laptop out of the way, walking.)

“You said you were fifteen stories up?” Castiel murmured.

“Yeah, just about.”

“And what building are you working at right now?”

(There was no way. But Castiel’s mind was whirring, spinning with impossibilities, because he was running the numbers in his head, the dates, two years and two days in a row and it  _ was  _ a year, it was  _ exactly  _ a year,  _ whateverlefthoweverimprobablemustbe—) _

Dean responded.

Castiel inhaled.

He walked his way over to the windows. There was a very small latch on the side, high enough that he needed to go on his tiptoes to reach. He never opened the window.

He clicked open the latch and pushed open the window. It made a loud creaking noise.

“What was that?” Dean said, through the cell.

Castiel poked his head out the window, studiously refusing to look at the rows upon rows of cars that whizzed by below him, so far down, how the hell could Dean dangle all the way up here without getting a heart attack?

Castiel was on the twentieth floor. He directed his gaze downwards. Turned his head to the left. Then the right. 

When he saw him, his breath caught, loudly.

“Cas?” Dean asked. Castiel thought fleetingly that Dean was already resorting to nicknames, and that typically it took other people months to reach that level of comfort, but for some reason he didn’t mind it this time, not even the slightest. “You alright?”

“Look up,” Castiel said. “A little to your left. Higher.”

He saw dirty-blond hair turn his way; a flash of green eyes. He was holding a cell phone up to his ear.

Castiel waved.

“Holy fuck,” Dean said. If Castiel looked close enough, he could see his mouth moving.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said, feeling a strange sort of giddiness rising in his chest—this  _ never  _ happened, this was absolutely crazy, one in a thousand different timelines, possibilities, parallels—there was no way. 

But there was Dean, smiling so widely Castiel could see it from five stories up.

“This is crazy,” Dean said. “This is so completely, utterly insane.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Castiel said, and this _only_ happened in books and tv shows and the guilty-pleasure, never-to-be-shown-to-the-world excerpts he wrote at 3am to make himself feel better about still being single at age twenty-five—but it was, it _was,_ and it was all that mattered.

“So, Cas,” Dean said, interrupting the maelstrom that had made its way into Castiel’s head. “You wanna do that meet-and-greet, or what?”

“I was thinking we could skip that,” Castiel said. “And you could come over right now.”

“No can do, sweetheart,” Dean said. “I’ve got about two dozen more windows to clean.”

Castiel groaned.

“But I’m sure I can take a break once I reach yours,” Dean finished.

Castiel smiled. “You can?”

Dean’s voice was warm like sunshine in his veins. “Oh, absolutely.”

“Can’t wait,” Castiel said.

“Back atcha’,” Dean said. “I’ll see you soon.”

The dial tone rang in Castiel’s ears, and for once, it was a welcome sound.

Castiel put his phone down and went into the kitchen to prepare two plates of scrambled eggs.

**Author's Note:**

> Window Cleaning is not a real tag on ao3, and I can't say I'm surprised lmao
> 
> Special thanks to my friend Sean for giving me the idea for a window cleaner AU! I laughed when you told me about it and then turned around and wrote 3k of it.
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed! Thank you endlessly for reading, and leave a comment if you want to make my whole day 1000x brighter. Cheers <3


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